Dies Irae Read online

  Drayco kept a steady gaze trained on her. “Is that why you got into voodoo, because you were off your meds?”

  She met his gaze for a brief moment, then avoided looking at him. “You’re the one who’s on something. My parents would kill me if they found out I was involved in some cult or whatever. You should ask Gary, Mr. I’m-better-than-anyone-else. He’s into all kinds of weird things, so he’s the one you should ask about drugs.”

  Drayco walked over and sat beside her on the dressing table. “Are you a soprano or mezzo?”

  “Soprano.” She pulled out some wintergreen-scented gum and started chewing.

  “You’re familiar with the opera La Gioconda?”

  “Of course.” Her eyes widened. “I see what you’re getting at. Gioconda wanted to stab her rival, okay, but I never touched Cailan. Nor drugged her.”

  She slid off the table and headed for the door. “The police told me all that, so it’s like you’re tripping me up or anything.” She paused before slipping out the door. “It would be a real operatic thing of me to do, wouldn’t it? Killing Cailan? My best role yet.”

  Shannon blew a big bubble at them and then ducked into the corridor, where another young woman joined her. Her companion was a few years older, with thick makeup like a Hollywood starlet. The woman frowned at the men and guided Shannon down the hall and through an exit.

  Sarg said, “Geo condo?”

  “A Ponchielli opera.”

  “Didn’t know you liked opera.”

  “I don’t.”

  Sarg got up out of his chair and stretched. “Yup, day keeps getting better and better. I’ve got a whole new appreciation for lithium.”

  Drayco folded his arms across his chest. “Gilbow’s goddaughter? You holding that tidbit in escrow, like Gilbow and Onweller being best buds? It wasn’t one of your bullet points.”

  “That goddaughter thing is news to me, too. Onweller never said a word.”

  Sarg walked to the doorway and planted himself in the middle, his hands pushing on both sides of the frame. “Look, I admit I made a mistake three years ago. A mistake and a decision I’ve regretted every day since. And will for the rest of my life. But I’ve never withheld any intel from you. I didn’t tell you about Onweller being chummy with the college president because I was afraid you’d turn me down if you knew.”

  Drayco didn’t reply. What could he say? Sarg was right about the intel. The real elephant trampling through that room was something neither of them had discussed. Why hadn’t Drayco contacted Sarg during those three years? It wasn’t just up to his former colleague to try and glue their friendship back together. Sarg had to live with his guilt. And Drayco? Excuses about being too busy felt like a cop-out.

  Sargosian unblocked the doorway and headed into the hall. “Guess this means we get to consult your favorite windbag after all. I’ll go rescue Cailan’s boxing gloves. You take those, I’ll get him another pair, and let you two duke it out.”

  The image of Gilbow flat on his back in the middle of the boxing ring cheered Drayco up. “Were you able to get in touch with our Prince Charming, Gary Zabowski?”

  “We see him in an hour. First, I have a treat for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re going to see the King.”

  8

  The “king” turned out to be more of a jester. Baggy black-and-white checked pants, white T-shirt, long dark hair and a beard that reached to his chest. Drayco looked at the man’s feet, half-expecting to see oversized floppy shoes, but he sported only ordinary sneakers. He knew from Sarg’s case file that Elvis Loomis, alleged Cailan stalker, had a rap sheet including drugs, DUI and domestic violence on an ex-girlfriend.

  They’d arranged to meet him at the Campus Security office, where he sat in an interview room. Not far from the room, Drayco spied a row of Segway patrollers emblazoned with Parkhurst Campus Security on the sides. Those things went for several grand each.

  Sarg, getting more foul-tempered by the minute, strode right on in and slapped his hands palm-side down on the table. “All right, Mr. Loomis, let’s cut the crap. Why were you stalking Cailan Jaffray?”

  Elvis Loomis mimicked Sarg by slapping his hands on the table and leaning in. Both men were reverse images of each other, the scowling nobleman in his dark suit and the grinning jester in his costume. “She was pretty, she had a pretty voice. Knew she’d be a big star some day. I wanted her autograph. End of story.”

  “You were seen following her on more than one occasion. Did you need that T-shirt and a hat autographed, too?”

  “Already told all of this to the po-leece. You suits are all the same. Jump on the fucky-duck who don’t conform. Cause anyone who’s done time is always up to no good.”

  “You hit a woman once. Is that a hobby of yours?”

  “She said I hit her. I didn’t. But who’s gonna believe me?” Elvis peered over at Drayco. “That your good cop?”

  Drayco hid a smile and waved.

  “Does he talk?”

  Drayco walked to the end of the table to get a better look at Elvis’ face. “How’d you get this job with your background, Elvis?”

  “Hey, the good cop does speak. This job, my friend, came via a recommendo. Used to be groundskeeper for a congress-critter. I do good work, ask the Dean.”

  “Oh, we will all right.” Sarg pulled out a chair, but didn’t sit down. “A campus is filled with lots of young women. That why you wanted the job, Mr. Loomis?”

  Elvis leaned back and laughed. “I needed the bread, but yeah, that’s a perk. Place is full of hot young chicks. I dare you not to look at any of them parading around in skimpy clothes and tight jeans. I’m not a eunuch, for chrissakes.”

  Sarg growled. “I have a daughter that age.”

  “Don’t get your thong in a wad, man. I’m the guy who trims trees and mows lawns. Never hurt nobody.”

  Elvis squinted at Drayco while motioning toward Sarg. “Call off the bad cop, ’kay? Or arrest me or whatever. His negative energy is harshing my buzz.”

  Drayco slid into the chair Sarg had pulled out. “Where did you hear Cailan sing in the first place?”

  “College concerts. The only kind I can afford—free. Besides, opera’s my thing now. Callas, Sutherland, Fleming. Does the soul good.”

  Drayco smiled. “Music does, yes. How did you become an opera fan?”

  “In jail.” When he saw Sarg open his mouth, Elvis hastily added, “We had this warden who was like that Arizona dude—the one who makes inmates wear pink uniforms. Our warden’s idea of torture was to play opera through the intercom. Had some of the guys ready to gnaw their arms off, but me, I began to dig it. When I got out, I haunted Clayton’s CD Cellar, looking for bargain discs. Got hundreds of ’em.”

  Sarg butted in. “You collect voodoo dolls, too?”

  Elvis’ words echoed Shannon’s. “Didn’t know G-men were allowed to do blow on the job, man. Voodoo dolls?” He spread his arms out wide. “My religion is the entire universe. Everything else is myth, man.”

  Drayco pushed the paper with Cailan’s music puzzle in front of him. “You enjoy puzzles, Elvis?”

  Elvis looked at the paper and his lips curled into a smile. “They’re okay, but I don’t read music. Ironic, huh?”

  Drayco got up and handed Elvis one of his cards. “In case you think of something that might help.”

  Elvis took the card in one hand and waved with the other. “Bye-bye, good cop.”

  Drayco and Sarg allowed Elvis to return to his gardening and headed to the car, where Sarg thumped the hood. “An innocent autograph stalker? Don’t buy it.” Sarg shook out his hand, flexing the fingers. “And you were easy on him. Seeing as how he’s a potential murderer.”

  Drayco glanced at Sarg’s hand. No damage. “He doesn’t strike me as a master liar. And if he honestly can’t read music, it would be hard for him to create those puzzles. Computer software or no.”

  “Still think he’s hiding something. And it’s possible the
guy who sent the puzzles isn’t the same one who killed her.”

  “I didn’t say Elvis wasn’t hiding something. Necessarily. And you’re right, we could be dealing with two separate culprits. If Elvis killed Cailan, I want to nail his sorry ass as much as you do.”

  Sarg started to thump the hood again, but stopped and rubbed the paint with his sleeve. “You kept Leonora, eh?” He patted Drayco’s Starfire again and sighed. Well, I’m rustier than this old-girl-of-a-car. Haven’t been out in the field for far too long. Hell, you’ve done more with your solo consulting. I’ve become a goddamn police research librarian. Not what I bargained for.”

  “It’s like Klangfarbenmelodie.”

  Sarg stared at Drayco like he’d lost his mind.

  “It means altering the color of a note or melody by switching instruments in the middle of it. But it’s the same music. Maybe you’re not out in the field on a regular basis anymore, but you help law enforcement agencies do their jobs better. It all serves the same purpose.”

  Sarg perched on the hood of Drayco’s car for several moments, not saying anything, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He squinted skyward as a flock of geese honked loudly overhead, V-ing their way south. “I haven’t cooked a goose in a looooong time. Truth be told, I’ve never been fond of cooked goose.”

  “Maybe if you smothered it in gravy.”

  Sarg valiantly fought to hide a grin, grabbed the car keys from Drayco and whirled around to the driver’s side. “I lined up a visit with Mr. Gary Zabowski. But we may not be there long.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His father isn’t just an attorney, he’s a partner in a Philadelphia firm that’s argued cases in front of the Supremes. Pulls down several mil a year.”

  “Yet Gary told you to meet him at his apartment?”

  “I figure Dad Esquire or some other legal beagle will be there. Hate to disappoint you.”

  “Oh, I’m a disappointment sponge. I soak it up.”

  Yet Gary was the one person who intrigued Drayco the most. Composer Gary, in the center of the stormy love triangle, most likely candidate behind the music puzzle. Was the La Gioconda reference more of an apt one than he’d thought? If Gary was like the male romantic interest in the opera, he’d sail away to safety while the woman who loved him was sacrificed. No wonder Drayco didn’t like opera. Too much like his day job.

  Drayco said, “Been a while since you drove the Starfire.”

  Sarg hopped into the driver’s seat, and Drayco buckled himself into the passenger side as he said, “You still drive like an old woman?”

  In reply, Sarg accelerated backward and did a full 360 in reverse before pointing the car in the direction of Gary Zabowski, composer, lothario, and—if they were lucky—puzzlemeister.

  9

  It was a sleepy, tousled Gary Zabowski who answered their knock a few minutes shy of one o’clock. He had on briefs barely covered by a T-shirt that said “Composer by Day, Cage Fighter By Night.” Without a word, he motioned them toward a leather sofa behind a low table cluttered with empty cans of beer, Red Bull and takeout boxes with grease stains. Then he vanished into the kitchen. The sounds of running water and grains pouring out of a bag hinted he was making coffee.

  He was alone. No father, no lawyers.

  Sarg pointed at the table. “Resembles your place, or the way it used to be. And your cuisine.”

  Drayco didn’t think the aroma of stale beer and cigarette smoke mingling with decaying kung pao chicken was like his place at all. But he had to admit, he wasn’t a neat freak. A reaction against his father’s OCD cleanliness, perhaps, or it was the comfort he found in clutter. Sarg had often spent part of his visits playing maid.

  Gary’s computer setup on the other side of the room drew Drayco’s attention. A desktop unit and large monitor, two laptops, an electronic piano keyboard, a small mixer and two large speakers.

  The monitor had a project open, and Drayco took a closer look. Gary was working on a string quartet. As Drayco scanned the screen, he thought the music had some Bartók touches, which surprised him. It was a lot more tonal than what many young composition students were writing these days.

  “You’re here about Cailan and those music puzzle thingies, right?” Gary opened a new can of Red Bull and dumped some into his coffee, then set it down to light up something that looked like a clove cigarette, banned for sale in the states. He blew out a puff of sweet-smelling smoke and grinned at them. He was a kid used to getting what he wanted.

  Gary said, “Could have saved you the time and bus fare. Didn’t make those puzzles, didn’t kill her and don’t know who did. We done now?” He pushed past Drayco, grabbed the chair in front of the computer and spun it around to sit down, coming within inches of knocking into Drayco’s knee. He didn’t apologize.

  “You’re a composition student, right?” Sarg called from the sofa, where he moved to avoid sitting on a gooey, green patch.

  Gary waved his arm at the equipment. “What do you think all this is? State of the art, cost thousands. I charge it up and Dad pays the bills. Dad’s rich, in case you didn’t know. Thinking of ponying up a big chunk of change for the new Parkhurst law school so it’ll be named after him.”

  Gary didn’t need an attorney, he had his ego to protect him.

  “You dated Cailan, dumped her for Shannon Krugh. Were you aware of their rivalry and Shannon’s bullying?” Sarg apparently thought better of sitting on the stained sofa and joined them so that he and Drayco were bookending Gary.

  “That’s a big ten-bore, Mr. Cop Man. Shannon runs hot and cold. It’s why she didn’t have a lot of friends at the music school.” He blew a big cloud of smoke first in Sarg’s direction, then in Drayco’s. “It was fun dating a bipolar chick. Kinda like having two girlfriends at the same time.”

  “Did you know about voodoo dolls or threats directed at Cailan?”

  “Yeah, Cailan told me.”

  Sarg’s eyebrows shot up. “She did?”

  “She didn’t tell anyone else, only moi. Happened while we were still dating. I wouldn’t put it past Shannon to have done it. But she never fessed up to it.”

  “Was Shannon involved with any cults?”

  “Shannon? Would have guessed Cailan of the two. I mean it’s always the quiet ones, right? Wouldn’t touch those culty weirdos with a ten-foot light saber.”

  Sarg put his hand down on the computer table, hitting a stack of CD cases that clattered to the floor. He bent down to pick them up but grabbed something under the table instead. He straightened up to take a look, flipping the cover of a book around so Drayco could see it.

  The pictures on the cover were of nude men and women engaged in various sex poses. Sarg opened to the middle and turned it sideways. He said, “I’ll never look at caramel the same way again.” Then he flipped to the title page. “Local publishing company. Friends of yours?”

  Gary snatched the book out of Sarg’s hands and threw it under the table. “If you want to look into Cailan’s death instead of my reading material, talk to Liam Futino. I saw them arguing at the Café Renée the day she was murdered. I could tell he had it bad for her.” For a split second, Drayco noted a hint of wistfulness on Gary’s face.

  Drayco asked, “Who’s Liam Futino?”

  “Just a guy she knew. Nobody important.”

  Sarg pulled out his notebook to jot down the name. “Important enough to argue with, apparently. Know why they were arguing?”

  Gary shrugged. “None of my beeswax.”

  Spurred by Sarg’s book discovery, Drayco prowled around the room for other surprises. He made a circuit, noting a pile of video games stacked on a table. The game on the top was one of the popular role-playing titles, the usual good vs. evil, lots of nasty weapons, lots of CGI blood.

  Drayco picked it up and scanned the description. This one included casting spells. He put it back and continued his prowl, stopping by the sofa for a minute to stare at the floor, before returning to where Gary sat. “W
hy did you dump Cailan for Shannon?”

  Gary shrugged again. “Too trusting, too needy, too desperate for love and attention. I prefer things free and easy, no baggage.”

  He must use a different dictionary from Drayco’s—Shannon’s bipolar disorder didn’t count as baggage? “You had an alibi for the night Cailan was killed?”

  “Reed and I were hanging out at Tuchman’s. It’s a bar in Georgetown. Reed Upperman’s a doctoral psych student. I met him through Cailan, who was in this project of his on freaks.”

  Sarg’s cellphone emitted a series of beeps, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Gary snickered. “You use the default ringtone that came with that phone? Oh man, geezers and technology.”

  Sarg ignored him and headed toward the back of the room for some privacy.

  Gary pressed a save button on his computer keyboard and closed the project Drayco was looking at. “You carry guns, right? I prefer Glocks. Go on the range and practice when I get a chance.”

  “That so?” Drayco hadn’t carried a concealed weapon for the first couple of years after leaving the Bureau. It was like being cold, stark naked at first. But it meant no chance to use it, to potentially kill someone. It wasn’t until he had a nasty run-in with a client’s ex-con brother that he started hiding a gun in his car.

  Gary spun in his chair to face Drayco. “Bet packing a gun makes you feel big and tough. You ever shot a guy?”

  “Yes.” From across the room, he sensed Sarg tense up.

  “You kill him?”

  “Aiming to kill is a last resort. Keeping the bad guy alive for questioning is the better way to go.”

  Gary turned to his computer, tapped a few keys, and strains of Blue Öyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper” blared out of the speakers. “Too bad. That would be the only fun part of a gig like yours. At least with my money and degree,” he held up a hand and rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. “I’ll end up doing something a lot more lucrative than low-paid cop.”

  “A typical composer makes mid-five figures and teaches at a college. Hardly lucrative.”